


besotted: 1) strongly infatuated 2)intoxicated.

by clizzyhours



Category: Shadowhunters, Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Clothing, F/F, Fluff, Intimacy, Kissing, Light Angst, Pining, Sapphics, Slight Internalized Homophobia, Softness, Soulmates, Victorian era, is this historical accurate no does that matter when its clizzy, mentions of jonathan morgenstern and a hint of violence, there’s no actual violence or depiction.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:27:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22590964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clizzyhours/pseuds/clizzyhours
Summary: Lady Isabelle Lightwood catches Lady Clarissa Adele Morgenstern’s eyes.—or a Victorian Clizzy drabble.
Relationships: Clary Fray/Isabelle Lightwood
Comments: 12
Kudos: 50





	besotted: 1) strongly infatuated 2)intoxicated.

**Author's Note:**

> warnings: in tags. please let me know if you want something tagged.
> 
> thank you so much and please enjoy!

(I will find you.)

Lit candles give the beautiful guest room belonging to Lady Isabelle Lightwood, a dull illumination among the shadowy patterns, Clarissa Adele Morgenstern thinks, peeking through the slightly shut the door. She knocks lightly once, steps into the room after hearing Lady Lightwood call her name.

The wooden door is heavy as it clambers shut behind her. 

Lady Isabelle is near her armoire, a plethora of rich silks and dresses surrounding her like the queen Clarissa knows she is.

Clarissa feels frozen, motionless. She always does when Isabelle is present like she is a moth to a flame.

If she gets close to Isabelle, she might be consumed and well, it would be certainly a way to go from this dreadful, dreadful and awful society.

Not Isabelle, her proprietary manner hisses at her. It’s Lady Isabelle — not Isabelle.

Too formal, she wants to counter against rigid societal expectations.

She wants to be so much more than Lady Clarissa to Isabelle.

“Clarissa, my dearest Clarissa,” Isabelle teases, lounging against her royal red armchair. 

She can’t help but note that red is a wonderful color against Isabelle’s complexion and black hair just like the ruby pendant she wears around her neck, adorned against her collarbones, endless skin, she sees and immediately draws away.

Improper, she scolds herself internally. The yearning inside her jolts.

“Lady Isabelle,” Clary begins before Isabelle cuts her off with a sharp laugh.

“Please Clarissa. I cannot take any more lady this, lady that. I especially cannot take it from you.”

Clarissa gazes up at Isabelle, looks at her pleading dark eyes and tilted frown. 

Beautiful and sorrowful.

An immense sense of relief wells inside of her, giddiness reaching and curling like a second nature.

Clarissa almost wants to childishly point out ha at herself. She restrains herself and takes a step towards Isabelle.

“Isabelle, I was wondering if - “ She cannot bring herself to say the words despite the longing she feels to her bones. Her red hair billows around her face and she cannot help but want to hide away.

Isabelle is watching her with curious eyes, that soft expression she has when she ponders a thought.

“May I do up the back of your dress, Miss Lightwood?” Clarissa asks abruptly, instead, gloved hands nervously toying.

Isabelle muses, let’s out a gentle hmm.

Clarissa never quite meant to fall for the wild, rebellious heart with thick dark hair and scandalous dresses, always wearing a wicked smile to match her attitude.

Alas, she was besotted immediately when the American woman whirled through the ballroom in a flurry of red dresses and gleaming jewels, fire in her eyes and embracing the gentle music at balls wantonly.

I know you from somewhere, Clarissa remembered thinking, her heart beating loudly among the crowd of people.

Her heart is in Isabelle’s hands and she so desperately wants Isabelle’s own heart back.

Clarissa has always loved fiercely. 

Isabelle, however, she wants to protect and soothe and care and love.

It’s different from anything else. Instinctive need.

Soulmates, she wants to say, a notion her brother had once tried to eradicate and taint.

He has ruined many, many and Clarissa will not allow Isabelle to burn in his raging wars.

He is not to be trifled with and so she refuses to allow him to linger in this moment between her and Isabelle.

“Yes,” Isabelle finally says, lips enveloping into a warm smile.

“Yes?” Clarissa repeats, confusion evident.

Isabelle laughs and god, god, it’s magical.

“Yes, Clarissa. You may do up my dress.”

Her breath hitches and the room feels suddenly warm, colors exploding and changing. She does not even realized she has moved until she is inches away from Isabelle.

Isabelle stands up and slowly turns around, brushing back her long dark hair to reveal her glorious neck and back and her unbuttoned dress.

She’s not wearing a corset, a contrary against Clary.

It’s so very Isabelle.

Clary steps closer and she feels dizzily overwhelmed. It cannot be this possible to be so close to someone, she thinks.

Her gloves hands are shaky but she gets the courage to reach for Isabelle’s back and dress. 

Her fingers inadvertently skim Isabelle’s back, soft skin registering somewhere inside of her head. She hears a pitched gasp, Isabelle, she thinks, her fingers trailing like fire.

She closes one button, following along Isabelle’s spine, the warmth exuding, hears her hitched breathing.

Hope has settled inside and she feels boisterous, unhinged.

She closes the next, little by little. Her fingers skim again. 

Isabelle’s breathing is unsteady and  
Clarissa wishes she knew what Isabelle was thinking.

Could she be impacted, does she feel the same way, does she -

Clarissa continues until she reaches the end.

“Will you move my hair back?” Isabelle asks, shakily. 

Clarissa murmurs a yes, her breath ghosting Isabelle’s neck.

She is so very close. 

Clarissa gently takes Isabelle’s hair from the side, fingers brushing gently until it settles against her buttoned back.

“Clarissa,” Isabelle murmurs. “What were you going to originally ask me?”

A terrifying sensation crawls through her but she slides through.

Be valiant, she tells herself. You’re your mother’s daughter after all.

“I was going to ask you if you,” Her nerves falter, hands trembling, eyes shutting.

“Clary, look at me,” Isabelle says, her fingers trailing against Clarissa’s jaw. 

Her eyes flutter open and Isabelle is staring with heady eyes.

“Clarissa, I long to kiss you. I have wanted to kiss you ever since I first saw you at the societal ball. Will you allow me the honor of kissing you?” Isabelle asks, desperate and fervent.

Clarissa murmurs yes, Isabelle’s hand cupping her cheek.

She leans down slightly to kiss her and oh, oh, oh, it’s everything she has imagined. Everything she has wanted and yearned and longed for.

Isabelle kisses her like she’s on fire, kisses like it’s their first meeting, like the world is going to end and this will be their last encounter together.

It’s heavenly. It’s blessed.

Clary kisses back fiercely, lovingly.

Soulmates, she thinks.

I will always find you.

They kiss and kiss and kiss until Clary is gasping for breath, until Isabelle’s lips are swollen, until their fingers cling onto each other fiercely, hearts given as soulmates do.

(I found you.)


End file.
